because, life.

Main menu

What defines you as a parent?

It’s beautiful, hot and sultry, a day that belongs to the peak of summer and not early fall, and my children are running wild at a playground, shouting, laughing. Occasionally crashing and crying. And suddenly, Flora runs up to me, shaking with laughter, and:

Flora: Mom, mom, mom, mom, listen! I have a story, such a good story for your blog! O… what’s his name on the blog again?

Jane: Ender.

Flora: Yeah, yeah, yeah—Ender was just playing with that cute little girl, do you see her?

I look. Smile. Nod. Ender and another three-year-old are across the playground, solemnly engaged in filling each other’s shirts and pants with gravel.

Flora: Yeah, yeah, yeah, so she was playing there, and he filled a bucket with gravel and dumped it on her head. And she burst into tears.

I don’t like where this story is going. I will edit it considerably in the telling, I think.

Flora: And O… Ender said, “Don’t cry, don’t cry, I love you. Here, you do it now!” And look, they’re just dumping gravel all over each other all happy and everything. And the best part is, he’s not dumping gravel on me!

And I kiss Flora, and glance around for Ender’s playmate’s mother, to ensure that she’s one of those-type-of-mothers, and not these-types-of-mothers, but before I find her, I hear a voice out of the corner of my left ear:

Beautiful stranger: Excuse me… this is going to sound really weird, but are you Nothing By The Book?

Now, if you’re a fellow blogger about to go into swoons of envy, let me assure you that a) this hardly ever happens to me and b) I may live in a million-plus town, but the out-on-the-fringe-sub-culture community here is teeny-weeny and this isn’t as epic an event as it might seem to you—and not nearly as ego-gratifying to me as you might think. Or so I maintain, and I am the writer and teller of the story. Speaking of, back to the tale:

Jane: More or less.

Beautiful stranger: Are those your children?

And her eyes, and mine, go to Cinder—hanging upside down from a tree—Flora—dancing ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and whispering to herself—and Ender… filling his playmate’s shoes with gravel and then dumping it on her head.

I fight the urge to disclaim my relationship to Ender.

Jane: Yeah.

And suddenly, I know what she’s going to say before she says. Oh, yes, I know it and I brace myself for it, and she says:

Beautiful stranger: They look so clean!

And I swallow my laughter, and look at Cinder’s wild hair, freshly (self) washed and (self) brushed this morning, and Flora’s 12 tiny braids (“I want 24 mom, pleeeeeeeze!” “Not today, babe, that will take me at least an hour. Raincheck?”), and even Ender’s gravel-filled head looks pretty presentable, and I can’t help it, I say:

Actually, you know what? I’m not going to assume what she’s assuming. Or even that she’s assuming.

I look at her thoughtfully. Introduce my real self. Ask her name. And which of the children are hers.

There’s a toddler, going up and down, up and down the slide. And a brand-new baby, sleeping in half-a-double-stroller.

And I feel, immediately, such a wave of affection and empathy for her, because she’s in one of those toughest, most draining phases, isn’t she? Toddler, baby. Erratic sleep patterns. Everything in life a constant adjustment, struggle. Never enough time. Barely a sense of self… Maybe still waiting for things to get easier… (Oh, beloved, do you still believe that lie?)

And then, a wave of fear and horror, almost repulsion, because she looks at me with anxiety and eagerness and eyes and a heart so full of questions and I clam up, dam up, because she’s looking for a guru and I fucking hate that.

And you think, you hypocrite, then why do you blog about parenting and children and child-rearing un-philosophies, and I answer—I’m a writer. Try to stop me from writing. Try. But this by-product, it’s, truly, truly hard to deal with.

I’m so busy clamming, damming I miss the question, and I ask her to repeat it. And laugh, as I look at her hairless baby, and not much more hair-endowed toddler, because she essentially asks me whether, if she believes that good grooming—brushed and cut hair, matched clothes, all of that—if she believes those things are important, does that mean she’s not an attachment parent?

She’s still on that hair post you see, and I briefly regret using the “AP” tag in it, because its meaning to me is historical and laden with more than 11-years of relationships and reinterpretations, and she’s brand new to the journey, and in the most vulnerable stage of it, and…

… and fucking hell, she’s looking at me with “enlighten me” eyes again, and I need to fix that, right now.

Without being mean.

I cast my eyes over Cinder-way, and send him a psychic message that now would be a really great time for him to… whack another child. Swear. Throw an age-inappropriate temper tantrum. Steal his sister’s hat and run off with it…

Instead, the brat retrieves a small child’s lost ball. Picks up a stray coffee cup and tosses it into the garbage. Strikes up a polite conversation with gravel-girl’s mother.

They never do what you want them to, do they?

Sigh.

Flora, at this age and stage, will be absolutely no help at all—she is perfect behaviour incarnate right now, however briefly—and while Ender’s could usually be counted to behave as a normal, and not aspirational-ideal child, he is currently too busy making gravel-angels with his future fourth wife (he has a list) to perform.

Fine.

Up to me.

And words.

I know what she’s really asking. It’s not about hair-brushing, anymore than my original post was. It’s about the big stuff: principles, philosophies, self-definitions. What she’s really asking me is this very simple, but very big question:

What is it that I do that defines me as a parent?

And what I want to tell her, very clearly, loudly, powerfully, is this:

Why would you ever let an Internet stranger define who you are or are not as a parent? As a person?

Except that’s not helpful, because I know the answer to it: it’s because she’s searching and self-defining, and how she’s defining and creating her story is in opposition to how her mother defined herself, and it’s different from how she’s seen her next-door neighbour do it and so different from her sister-in-law, and she’s uncertain, and it’s so hard… And so, as she’s searching, she’s also, sub-consciously, always searching for approval, from anyone, anything…

Even a mouthy Internet stranger. Even one whose position on hair-brushing kind of appalled her…

My mind’s scripting a long, complicated answer to what it is that really defines me—her—any of us—as a parent, and how it’s the same thing that defines as people and how being is more important than doing even though the doing is what people see—and I have this huge tangent developing about how bottle-nursing with love is better than breastfeeding with resentment and how Ender was never, ever “baby-worn” because I was so broken when he was born and how no matter how often I fail at any of my lofty aspirational parenting goals, no matter how often I fail to do what I want to do, what I know is right, none of that changes what I am, as a parent, as a person, because…

… I meet her eyes again. And she’s so tired. And so anxious. And she’s standing next to me, with no sense of who I am but some knowledge of what I do and too full of what I write. And she’s on such an early, fragile stage of her journey. And she so desperately wants approval. Re-assurance.

And I so don’t want to be a guru. On a pedestal.

But you know what? Fuck it. This moment isn’t about me. It’s about her.

“You,” I say, “are a really, really fucking amazing mother. I see it in how you look at your kids. It’s flowing out of every part of you. You are a great, great mother. All the things you do, or don’t do, that get labeled as—whatever, attachment parenting, permissive, authoritarian, helicopter—insert label of choice here—all those things that you do or don’t do? They barely matter. It doesn’t matter what you do, someone out there will criticize it, take you apart for it. But what you are—this amazing woman who loves, loves, loves and cares so much for them? That’s who you are, what you are—what defines you as a parent. Don’t let anyone ever belittle that, make you doubt that.”

The baby stirs and starts to fuss, and she goes to feed it. And while the little is latching on, the toddler stumbles and gets a bleeding nose and starts to cry. And she tends to one and to the other, and they’re both crying, because she’s pulled in two directions, and she’s already exhausted. And she pulls it together, and does what needs to be done… and they’re in the stroller, homeward-bound, where she has so much more, so much more to do.

An amazing mother.

An amazing woman.

Who should never, ever need the approval of Internet strangers. Or, god forbid, that of Aunt Augusta.

But when she does—when she comes to you, vulnerable and tired and aching for affirmation—give it.

How you treat her defines you as a person. As a parent.

Leaving soapbox—now.

xoxo,

“Jane”

P.S. Beautiful stranger: you know where to find me. Coffee, and a “thunk” off my pedestal are in order. If we meet with kids, I promise to yell at them at least twice, and if we meet in the afternoon, I can almost guarantee an Ender-meltdown.

♦

P.P.S. And what happened in the blogosphere this week? I haven’t a clue. Super self-involved this week. Oh, what a week. Month. Summer. But, on the day we were celebrating #yycpride in Calgary, I connected with Seven Little Mexicans on Twitter, and I think you should check out their super cool blog “because funny things happen when two girls try to make a baby.” New to Twitter, they are, so give them a follow at @7littleMexicans.

First of all,
You say fuck and I enjoy that thoroughly.
Secondly, you totally got recognized and that is the shizz.
Thirdly, this is such a fabulous topic. When I read blogs I often have that little voice inside my head saying “You’ve got it all wrong sister.”…my house isn’t clean enough…my child is an asshole sometimes…I haven’t showered in a few days…I’m awful.
I think that it is so important as bloggers and as mothers to talk about the realness of parenting.
And we need to say fuck a lot.

I loved so much about this post – the fact that you’re famous, the fact that your daughter provides you with stories for your blog, and the fact that you made that woman feel like the amazing mother she is.

I remember many (many) years ago, when I got back together with an ex-boyfriend and I was scared to tell my parents, my dad told me he I wasn’t as grown up as he thought I was. When I asked what he meant, he told me I needed to reach a place where I lived my life for ME and not for other people. I’ve never forgotten that…

I love reading your blog. I have no clue what “attachment parenting” is (and I’m too lazy to google it right now) and even though I don’t always relate to the things you write about I DO relate to how you feel confident in the answers you have. Like, I would never go looking for parenting advice. Because its just like duh you just DO it. But I’ve learned (in blog world) that many people just seem to have so many annoying questions about it. And yes you are nice because if someone was ever like, Are you Spy Garden? I’d say uh NO! what is a spy garden? hahahha

to clarify: not that I think new/unsure mothers are annoying, just want to get the message across that they should just trust their instincts and to learn they have a lot of the answers they seek. Which I think your pep talk was very sweet and nice (and if “at least mildly sappy” definitely true!)

Would “I’m going to come stalk you” be too specific? I’m having trouble coming up with comments to your post. Each time I read your writing I want to say the same thing: When is the book coming out? xo

I love this post. Made me laugh (but quietly, with memories). Houses are never clean enough, kids are always noisy or farty or spitty or upside down (literally, figuratively), food is rarely served on time and even when it is, it’s (gulp) not as nutritious as it should be. That’s not a character weakness, it’s just The Deal. We have always asked each other (or judged each other) on Quality of Parenting, but–we’ve mostly always comforted each other over the fence and in the park/playground. It’s not so much “please tell me I’m doing it right” as it is, “please help me not to do it terribly wrong.” And I will always help, unless you’re beating your kid up at WalMart, in which case I might do something unpleasant. My grownup man-son did something splendid last week, a very wise and generous thing that lifted someone who otherwise might’ve been broken, and I flashed back to him at three, hitting a sandbox friend square between the eyes with a little metal sand shovel. Talk about attachment–for a good long minute, all I wanted to do was UNattach and run like hell in the other direction. I thought it was all over that day and we’d both live the rest of our lives in shame. It wasn’t, we didn’t. In spite of all the crap in the Bleh column, there’s MUCH more stuff in the Yay! column. They’ll mostly survive, they’ll mostly thrive and they’ll mostly forgive us. You guys, in fact, are the They I/we raised, and you’re (mostly) completely great!

How we treat others defined not only them but us too. This is a brilliant write up. I have been that tired over worked woman desperately seeking affirmation. At one point I was sure if I read one more post about a magical bedtime moment when little one kisses mommy and tells her he loves her I was certain I would break down crying and never stop because I never had that moment. I’ve also been where you are with someone anxiously asking my opinion in a moment of need. Your answer to her was beautiful and true. Thank you for putting it into words.

I really liked this post. I always feel that great-theory moms who “attack” other women have lost the point – how can we be strict with people and not with our children? And if we can this is wrong and not a very nice example for them. Your answer to that woman is beautiful =) Oh and I understand this woman’s interest to the hair post, it was the first I read and the reason I’m here (sorry for my English, I’m reading you from far away).